


The New Wolves

by RLWard



Series: Southbound North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, British Politics, Economics, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Politics, Protests, Revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5543297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RLWard/pseuds/RLWard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 899 AC, and the Westerosi general election is fast approaching with the radically right-leaning Westerosi National Party gaining concerning numbers in the polls. At the same time, the North is torn over an independence movement that Westerosi loyalists say borders on terrorism; the New Valyrian Republic is encroaching on Volantis; and Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of WNP leader, Aerys, feels heat in a fossilized dragon’s egg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cat I

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! This is my first attempt at a fic for the fandom, it’s a Modern AU that starts out loosely following the plot of ASOIAF and will change a bit from there. It’s a political drama, primarily, and will follow a broad spectrum of characters and ships. I hope you all enjoy it, and feel free to let me know what you think! (Constructive criticism is just as welcome as praise, though I do enjoy having my ego stroked). 
> 
> The political system for Westeros most closely models the British system, because I’m lazy, and it fits well. There may be some differences here or there, I haven’t planned this out too thoroughly. There’ll be some economic stuff in here too, and my knowledge of economics is pretty rudimentary so I’m sorry if anything is off. 
> 
> I haven’t completely decided which ships are going to sail in this story, though I have a couple in mind I’ll just put up the ones I know for certain. There isn’t anything explicit yet, so for the moment I’m leaving the rating at Mature and will move it up to Explicit when it’s necessary, and I’m also not entirely sure which warnings to use as I haven’t completely fleshed out the plot, so I’ll put a few that are on the more likely side. 
> 
> Oh also! For updates and stuff follow me on tumblr at southboundnorth.tumblr.com
> 
> Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places, and plot lines belong to George R.R Martin. The new stuff belongs to me

**Cat**

  


_“According to a new poll, the Westerosi National Party has taken the lead in several prominent constituencies throughout Crownland, Reach, and southern portions of Riverland. Now boasting a six percent lead over the incumbent Revolutionary Party in national polls, it appears that the far right-wing WNP is becoming a sort of dark horse as the general election draws closer._

_With us here today, is political analyst Tyrion Lannister. Mr. Lannister, should the WNP gain enough of a majority to form a government, who do you believe is most likely to be elected as Prime Minister?”_

_“It’s practically common knowledge that the WNP worships their party leader, Aerys Targaryen. Should, Gods forbid, the constituents oust Baratheon’s government in favor of WNP they would be ensuring their rule under a --”_

The news broadcast cut off suddenly, replaced with the unbearable noise that Sansa liked to call music -- Margie Terrell or someone like that. Catelyn Stark held in a sigh, sealing the clingwrap around the last PB&J as she waited for the bickering to start. Sansa was nearly sixteen now, and Gods love the child, she was almost as aggravating as Jon had been two years ago when he grew out his hair and started blasting rock music.

“Sansa!” She heard Ned snap, “Did you ask if you could change the channel?”

Catelyn turned at the muffled giggle behind her to see Robb biting into an apple. She still thought it was odd that he wasn’t starting school at the same time as all the others, it was even odder that in a few weeks he’d be leaving home entirely -- both him and Jon, they were eighteen now.

Her son grinned, “You think she would’ve learned not to come between Dad and his politics by now.”  

“It’s _boring!”_ They heard Sansa protest from the living room.

“It’s important! Now give me the remote,” Ned shot back, “You’re supposed to be getting ready for school not listening to Margo Tynell.”

“ _Margaery Tyrell!”_ Sansa corrected him, and Catelyn and Robb looked at each other as they smiled. Robb shrugged as if to say, _I don’t know how to handle her either._ And sauntered out of the kitchen with another crunch of his apple. A few seconds later Catelyn rolled her eyes as she heard Sansa scream.

“Don’t touch my hair! I spent hours curling it!”

“You’re going to miss me when I’m gone you know.” There was a thud as Robb fell onto the couch next to his father.

“As if!” Sansa said, and Catelyn listened to the sound of the girl stomping up the staircase. What had happened to the sweet, quiet family she’d had a few years ago?

The telltale rumble of wheels on hardwood signaled that Bran had gotten out of bed, and the bubbling laughter behind him could only be Rickon. After Bran’s accident Ricky had been so excited to move into Bran’s old upstairs bedroom, but then there was another slight complication that had forced her youngest sons to share Rickon’s downstairs.

“Good morning, good sister,” Lyanna Stark sang, spinning about to kiss Catelyn on the cheek before grabbing an apple. Ned’s little sister was staying with them temporarily until she found a new job...that temporary stay had lasted for nearly ten months now. Catelyn knew the economy wasn’t what it was two years ago, it wasn’t even what it was ten months ago; but sometimes she just got the feeling that Lyanna wasn’t really looking for a job.

“Good morning, Lya. Any plans for today?” Catelyn asked the younger woman. At thirty four, Lyanna was still beautiful -- all dark hair and big pale eyes -- but regrettably still seemed to believe she was twenty.  

“I was thinking I could take Jon, maybe go see old Winterfell castle,” she said nonchalantly, leaning back against the counter, “We’re descended from the great kings of winter you know, he should know his heritage.”

 _Ironic,_ Catelyn thought with a thin smile, and then said, “Just Jon? He and Robb are _twins_ after all, you’d think they would want to go together. Those two have hardly spent a day apart in their lives, and now they’re going to be living on opposite ends of the continent.”

Lyanna laughed, “Well someone needs to stay back with Ned, that old man can hardly get up the stairs to his bed much less the towers of Winterfell.”

“I’m not that old!” Ned shouted from the living room.

“Yeah, Aunt Lya, give him a break!” Robb called, “He’s not a decrepit old man yet, just decrepit!” Robb’s laughter was cut off with a yelp, she supposed Ned must’ve hit him though Ned was laughing too. Catelyn tried to giggle with Lyanna, but she had a hard time finding Ned’s injury as funny as everyone else did. He’d been on leave from work for far too long.

Having finished packing lunches for her children who were still in school, she stepped out into the living room where three Starks were watching the news. She didn’t know what it was about Stark blood, but it did seem to produce politically minded people. Her Ned was senior detective on the Northern Investigative Agency; Lyanna had been on her way to being a senior partner at her law firm before she’d gone and lost her job; and now Robb was talking about studying Political Science though he didn’t have a clue what he was going to do with it.

“What’s for breakfast?” Bran asked as he rolled past.

“Cereal, I didn’t have time to cook this morning,” Catelyn said.

“Are there any Frosted Wolves left?” Bran called, rooting through the cabinets next to the oven. Ever since he’d been in a wheelchair, they’d been keeping most of the snack foods and dishes low enough for him to reach.

“There should be! Check the lower shelf!”  

Catelyn frowned, thinking. Rickon was already at the table with a bowl of his favorite cereal, she could hear Sansa banging around upstairs, Bran was in the kitchen...she was missing one.

“Has anyone seen Arya?” Catelyn asked.

“Jon took her,” Robb replied, “She wanted to get dropped off early, something about lacrosse tryouts?” Catelyn wasn’t surprised, Arya had always been the sporty one of the family. Robb and Jon were athletic, and Sansa was a pretty outstanding volleyball player, but Arya was perhaps the most belligerently athletic of her children. The girl had had half a mind to try out for the rugby team at her middle school until Ned put his foot down. So instead she’d stuck to riding her horse, and the fencing classes they’d gotten her for her name day...and now apparently she was going to try lacrosse.  

Catelyn glanced at the news screen, where Shae Mooring’s voice was laid over a video of dragon’s eggs.

_“Starting in two weeks, dragons will be returning to Westeros in the form of fossilized eggs. These eggs are a part of the Old Valyria exhibit coming to Oldtown University’s Museum of History.”_

Catelyn made a mental note of the exhibit, Bran would be overjoyed to see it when they took Robb down to university. In the meantime, however, she just had to make sure the kids all got to school.

“Sansa!” She called up the stairs, “Sansa, you’re going to make your brothers late if you don’t hurry!”

“I’m coming!”

  


Catelyn frowned, tapping her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as they slowly wound through Historic Winterton. She loved driving beneath the walls of Winterfell, but the cart and pony ahead of her were starting to get on her nerves. Rickon and Bran had seen this a thousand times, they practically lived within walking distance, but still their eyes lit up every time they saw the actors: high ladies in dresses, peasants in homespun, guardsmen in mail, and knights on horseback trotting up and down the lane.

“Did you know that Winterfell was built on top of hot springs? That’s why the walls are always warm, even in the winter,” Bran said, looking up at the high walls with wonder. The boy had always loved history.

“Everyone knows that Bran, it’s like, common knowledge.” Sansa wasn’t in a particularly good mood this morning.

“Sansa, don’t be rude to your brother,” Catelyn said, feeling obligated to reprimand her even though really she was just tired, and would like to get back home. Sansa huffed, but quieted, scrolling through some social media app on her phone.

Life would be a good deal easier if all of her children went to the same school, but life just didn’t like to be easy. Rickon went to Baelor Academy, a private religious school for gifted children -- Robb and Bran had both attended when they were in elementary school. Now Bran went to Bolton Prep, the same high school that Robb had attended. Sansa, who had wanted the public school experience, went to Winterton High; Arya, who was too fidgety to sit for any private school examinations, went to Winterton Middle.

“Margaery Tyrell is having a concert on my nameday,” Sansa said just as they broke free of Historic Winterton.

“Is she?” Catelyn asked, stepping on the gas peddle. They had five minutes to get Ricky over to Baelor.

“I was thinking I could go as my present, maybe bring Jeyne?”

“We’ll think about it,” Catelyn said, turning down Stark Street, “Where is it?”

“Steel Street Entertainment Center, if we hurry and buy tickets now I could be entered to win VIP passes to get backstage. I could meet Margaery herself, Mum, isn’t that fantas-”

Catelyn’s brow furrowed...Steel Street, “Sansa, Steel Street Entertainment Center is in King’s Landing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sansa said, brushing her off, “I already found a hotel I could stay at, and--”

“Sansa, you aren’t going to King’s Landing.” Catelyn wouldn’t let her go for a lot of reasons, and she certainly wasn’t going alone. Even if she did have Jeyne with her, King’s Landing was a much bigger city than Winterton -- the two of them would get lost or worse. It didn’t quite matter though, whether Cat trusted the girls to handle themselves or not, they wouldn’t be going.

“Why not?” Sansa asked.

“Is she coming somewhere closer?” Catelyn asked, trying to compromise.

“She’s coming to Cerwyn, but that’s going to be like two months after my name day. Why can’t I go to King’s Landing?” Sansa sounded dangerously close to whining.

Catelyn sighed, “We’ll talk about it later, Sansa.”

“But, why can’t-”

“We’ll talk about it later!” Catelyn snapped as they pulled up in front of the old stone sept turned school that was Baelor Academy, “Now go help your little brother out of his carseat.”

“But Mum -”

“Now, Sansa!” Sansa huffed, unbuckling her seatbelt with sharp, heavy movements. Catelyn sighed as Sansa slammed the car door, this day certainly was starting out well.

  
  


It was those quiet moments that Catelyn enjoyed, laying out on the couch with her head in Ned’s lap. She smiled softly as his fingers combed through her hair. Twenty five years she’d known Ned, twenty that they’d been married, and she couldn’t say she would rather have had anyone else.

Lyanna had taken Jon out to Winterfell, Robb was visiting Theon, and at the moment they had the house entirely to themselves. Wake up Westeros was nearly over now, and Shae Mooring had gone from talking news to talking about how to pick the best Dornish wine for your summer’s end party. The volume had been turned down, this wasn’t the part Ned particularly cared for -- he’d always preferred WNN, Westeros News Now, the evening program headed up by Barristan Selmy.  

“Sansa has it in her mind that she wants to go to King’s Landing for her birthday, some big concert for that girl she likes so much,” Cat said.

“Margaery Tyrell?” Ned asked.

Cat laughed, “I didn’t think you actually knew her name.”

“Of course I do, she’s everywhere. It’s just funny to see Sansa get mad when I get it wrong.” Ned chuckled, and she could feel the vibrations in his chest.

He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “She is almost sixteen, it’s a special day for her.”

“Ned,” Cat started, “You know we can’t afford that. Between putting Robb and Jon through university, sending Rickon and Bran to private school, paying for that twice damned horse of Arya’s, and your medical bills...I just don’t see where we have the money for a five hundred dragon plane ticket to King’s Landing.”

Cat looked up at him, his mouth was drawn in a frown.

“Since when was a plane ticket to King’s Landing five hundred dragons?” He asked, though he didn’t really seem to expect an answer. After a moment of silence he took a deep breath,“This is about me not working, isn’t it?” He asked, and she knew she couldn’t lie.

“Yes Ned, this is about you not working.” He nodded solemnly, obviously thinking and Catelyn felt a touch of guilt in her stomach though she couldn’t quite figure out why she felt guilty, “I know they won’t let you come back to work until you’ve healed...but...have you considered asking about a desk job? Something safer?”

“The protests were a freak --”

“The protests were dangerous, and I know you watch the news enough to know that they aren’t going to end there. After what happened you aren’t going to be strong enough if you’re called back out to keep the peace,” Cat said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. She certainly hadn’t been calm and reasonable when she’d gotten the call that her husband was in the hospital with a broken leg and a concussion.

“I don’t want a desk job,” he grumbled.

“It’ll be safer, Ned, and gods know it will pay more than --”

She was cut off as his cellphone started to ring, she glanced at the name on the screen: Robert Baratheon.

“I’ve got to take this,” Ned said, standing with a heavy groan. Cat frowned as she saw his weak knee shake a bit. “Hello?” Ned answered the phone.

“Ned!” Cat could hear Robert’s roaring voice even as Ned limped out of the room, “Ned how have you been!?”

“My leg was broken,” Ned said in a very matter of fact voice as the door to his office closed behind him, and Cat was left alone with Shae Mooring and her Dornish wines. She wasn’t alone for long however, because a few minutes later the front door burst open and she was practically assaulted by Robb and Theon’s yelling.

Theon and the twins had been friends for years, though he’d been Jon’s friend first all three had bonded quickly. He had always reminded Cat a bit of a young Robert Baratheon, dark haired and smiling -- even though at the moment Robb looked rather angry.

“Mum! Mum look at this!” Robb said, throwing a paper down on the coffee table in front of her. The headline, _Margaery Tyrell Brings Economic Boost to Cerwyn,_ didn’t seem to be of that much importance -- a picture of the scantily clad popstar smiling, microphone in hand, took up most of the front page.

“Is this girl all that anyone can talk about?” She asked.

“No! Not -- not, just look at page six!” Robb said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. When the boy got going on politics was the only time she would say he resembled his Uncle Brandon.

Catelyn licked her thumb before turning the paper to the sixth page, the largest article was entitled _Too Many Dragons? The Economic Consequences of The Abundance of Gold._ She didn’t even get the chance to start reading before Robb was going off again. Theon had taken a seat in the arm chair, watching with an amused grin -- Catelyn would bet money that Theon had riled him up even farther just to watch Robb go.

“Eight hundred million! Two years ago there were eight hundred million dragons circulating in Westeros, you know what the number is now? Two point four billion, that’s three times as many -- the dragon isn’t worth half what it was two years ago -- the whole bloody economy is being held up on silver, and it’s not going to hold forever. Cause you know what?”

“Tell her Robb,” Theon said with a hint of laughter under his voice.

“What Robb?” Catelyn asked, feeling rather proud of her son. Robb was a smart boy, passionate; and she had to admit he had a solid point.

“Cause now they’ve found gold mines in Vale, and at the rate at which it’s being sold to the treasury there’s going to be another eight hundred million dragons in the market by next year. The dragon will be at a quarter of its strength! No country with half a brain is going to want to trade with us, or let us borrow from them! The moment the floor falls out from under our feet, the inflation is going to be through the roof, and you know who’s bloody fault this is?”

“Who done it, Robby?” Theon goaded him on.

“It’s those fucking --”


	2. Tyrion I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Second chapter, this one focuses on Tyrion. Sorry for the slow start, I’ve got to get everyone’s plot lines off the ground I guess. Also I apologize that this chapter is really dialogue heavy. 
> 
> I guess as a note on higher education in Westeros I tried to modify the maester’s system of metal links/rings/masks/ etc… as best I could. A chain of a specific metal is equivalent to a bachelor’s degree in a given subject, rings are a masters, and the mask is equivalent to a PhD. 
> 
> Also, if you like the story and want updates on the chapters you can follow me at southboundnorth.tumblr.com

**Tyrion**

 

“Lannister! Fucking Lannister!!” Contrary to common belief doors aren’t soundproof, and glass doors even less so. So, with a deep breath he stopped and turned to read the nameplate on the door of whomever it was that had a bone to pick with him today. _The executive producer, ah, lovely,_ Tyrion thought as he shifted his briefcase to his other hand and pushed the door open.

“You summoned me?” Tyrion asked, a hint of a smugness masked with a polite smile.

Two men turned to look at him: his EP, Oberyn Martell; and a very angry looking Loras Tyrell -- corporate was always angry though, so Tyrion discounted the grimace on the pretty boy’s face. Loras was standing, shifting back and forth between Oberyn’s desk and the small table where his laptop was open to an email.

Tyrion looked to Oberyn, who shook his head as if to say this is your mess.

Since everyone had decided to be quiet, Tyrion decided to make himself at home and hopped up into the chair across from Oberyn, pleasantly folding his hands as he waited for Loras to spit it out. Resisting the urge to grin, Tyrion finally spoke himself, “You know, while you’re here Loras, I’d like to talk to you about the chairs.”

The younger man swallowed, surprise just barely taking over his anger. “What?”

“The chairs, I think they’re discriminatory.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Oberyn place his head in his hands, and a smile started to pull its way across Tyrion’s lips, “Every day that I come to work I have to scale my way up these ridiculously large chairs; it’s embarrassing, frankly. Now I have a very nice chair at home -- ergonomic, rolly, when I get bored I like to see how fast I can spin in circles -- but I can’t drag that on the subway all the way from Visenya’s Hill to Rosby I’d simply look ridic--”

“This is not about your tiny chair!” Loras yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “This is about your big mouth!”

“Ah there it is,” Tyrion said, finally allowing himself to grin. His mouth was only thing about him that was publicly acknowledged as large, and he was quite proud of it... _well, there’s one more thing but it’s not exactly public._

“I’m going to play something for you.” Loras pulled up a clip on his laptop, clearly showing Tyrion’s face, and hit play. The young man stood back, arms crossed, foot tapping almost incessantly as the video loaded.

_“It’s practically common knowledge that the WNP worships their party leader, Aerys Targaryen. Should, Gods forbid, the constituents oust Baratheon’s government in favor of WNP they would be ensuring their rule under a man who at best is a manipulative demagogue. At worst he’s a raging madman with less self control than one of those beasts his house loves so much -- it’s well known what happens to Targaryens when they get old, it’s been happening for nearly a millennia now --”_

Loras tapped the spacebar, cutting Tyrion’s rant off.

“You can’t -- you can’t just say things like that on air!” Loras yelled, “It was uncalled for, it was insulting, it was completely unnecessary!” Tyrion tried to object, but the Tyrell boy kept going, “You,” he pointed at Oberyn, “Are going to have get Shae on air with an apology to the party by tomorrow morning or --”

“No,” Oberyn said simply, watching the boy with the cold stare that had earned him the name Red Viper. The Red Viper didn’t like being told what to do.

“What do you mean --” Loras spluttered.

“I mean, no.” Oberyn stood, “I run a news corporation, not an advertising company. If the WNP wants to run under a vicious, xenophobic, madman then they will have to be prepared to defend him.”

“Yes,” Loras conceded, “Aerys Targaryen is perhaps too far right, and a bit too racist; but he’s the man that thirty percent of the fucking country is supporting. You can’t alienate them, we need the numbers; and for Seven’s sake you can’t insinuate he’s suffering from -- from dementia without some gods damned evidence! We have a tabloid for that, and I know this is just a morning show, but you’re supposed to be serious!”

That hung there for a moment, and Tyrion glanced over at his EP. Oberyn was leaning back against his desk, a tooth digging into his lower lip as he thought hard.

“Well, I didn’t quite --” Tyrion started to defend hiimself, but Loras cut him off.

“Didn’t quite is too close to did, Lannister. Martell, we want that apology to Mr. Targaryen on air tomorrow.” Loras shut his laptop, tossing his stuff in his bag and heading towards the door, “If you pull a stunt like that again Lannister, you’re fired.”

The office door was falling shut as Tyrion yelled, “Like I won’t find another network who wants someone to make some fucking sense of this shit show of an election!” The door clicked shut, leaving the two men in silence. They watched through glass walls as Loras wound between the desks of the newsroom, and disappeared into the elevator. “Put a flower in a suit, and suddenly it thinks it weighs as much as a lion,” Tyrion grumbled, “You know I like his sister much better, for all her vapid singing she’s a good deal smarter than that prick.”

Oberyn let out a deep breath, returning to his chair. Tyrion knew Oberyn was an intelligent man. He had his copper and yellow-gold chains from Sunspear University for history and economics; a ring and mask of steel enameled with gold for westerosi politics at Oldtown University; he’d spent numerous years abroad studying in the Volantene Republic, Asshai, and Braavos; and then had gone on to be Hand to his brother’s political career for years...and somehow had ended up taking orders from the halfwits up at corporate in the hell hole that was Broadcast Media Corporation.

“You know I’m right,” Tyrion said, and Oberyn nodded.

“You are...but so is he.”

“Oh come on, Oberyn. Don’t tell me you’re going soft on the man cause your sister married his son.” Tyrion knew deep down that wasn’t it, but he’d always liked pushing the Viper’s buttons. He was most honest when he was angry.

“This has nothing to do with Elia and Rhaegar, this has to do with the news!” Oberyn growled, his Dornish accent made even thicker by his frustration, “We can’t run up and down the Blackwater screaming for truth and justice, and then go and paint the Stranger’s face on an innocent man.”

“Aerys is not innoc--”

“Of course he isn’t!” Oberyn yelled, slamming his hand on the desk, “But if we can’t back up our arguments with more than a six century gone family history of incest --”

“Rhaella is his second cousin --” Tyrion broke in.

“Which is technically legal, even if disgusting; and would put his children under more question than him -- but let me finish! If we use logical fallacies while calling Aerys a liar, then we will look like even bigger hypocrites than he is. Start making better arguments, and if you find credible sources that says Aerys is unfit to lead a nation then you can bring it to me. Do you understand?” Oberyn asked, his eyes didn’t look cold, they looked like the eyes of the closest thing Tyrion had to a friend.

He took a deep breath, “Do you understand this is Wake up Westeros, not WNN? There are more housewives than --”

“Gods Tyrion, and you wonder why you don’t have a girlfriend?” Oberyn laughed, and then with a quick change of Dornish temper yelled, “The housewives are still registered voters you elitist arse! Now, do you understand?”

Tyrion frowned, but Oberyn made a good point, “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Oberyn sighed, looking utterly exhausted, and Tyrion couldn’t help but sympathize. Between the two of them they had more degrees than Aerys Targaryen; Robert Baratheon; and that twice damned fool at the head of BMC, Mace Tyrell, combined. Yet here they were, working a show that spent fifteen minutes on the best Dornish wine on a budget. “I was thinking that --”

He was cut off as his phone started ringing, and the Dornishman apologized before quickly answering. Tyrion recognized the soft tone of Doran Martell, and excused himself. All he really wanted was to get back to his apartment in Old King’s Landing, take a hot shower, and read for a good long while. Oberyn could catch him up on whatever he’d been thinking later...like tomorrow when they were back at four in the morning again type of later.

Tyrion sighed as Oberyn’s office door clicked shut behind him, and glanced around the newsroom. He didn’t have to be working here. He could be at any of the biggest think tanks, political campaigns, or law firms he wanted -- hells, he had two masks from Oldtown and more than enough credentials to be teaching there. Still, here he was trying to break into journalism of all things -- and sometimes he really had to wonder why.

“Mr. Lannister?” Tyrion was caught off guard by the man suddenly standing next to him. No, not man, the boy could hardly be out of college...his attempt at growing a beard was valiant to say the least. He looked familiar, though Tyrion supposed everyone here should be. He’d been at BMC for almost a year now.

“Do I know you?” Tyrion asked.

“My name’s Podrick Payne,” he extended his hand, “I’m an associate producer for WNN and I --”

Tyrion cut in quickly, trying not to laugh, “Your mother must hate you to give you a name like Podrick.” The boy’s mouth hung open, not a word coming out, “Silly name regardless, I don’t like being lied to boy.”

“I wasn’t --”

“Associate producers for WNN don’t get me coffee; and I’m not good with faces that I don’t care about, but I’m pretty sure last week you had my order memorized,” Tyrion said.

Podrick took a deep breath, mouth twisted in a grimace as he recited, “Half-caf mocha latté, with soy-milk - not whole milk, not skim milk, soy milk -- and a few dashes of cinnamon and nutmeg. And yes I’m an intern, now could I just ask you --”

Tyrion blinked, thinking hard, “Do I really say it like that?”

Podrick nodded, “Yes, sir, you do. Now could you please answer a couple questions for me. I know I’m just an intern, but I think I found a story that I really want to follow; and if I could just get this then maybe I’ll get a real job so I can forget your coffee order.”

The boy sounded desperate. Taking a deep breath, Tyrion gestured with two fingers for Podrick to come, “Walk with me. What do you need?”

“Have you heard anything about the New Valyrian Republic recruiting for their military?”

Tyrion scoffed, “The New Valyrian Republic is a bunch of up jump Ghiscari living in ruins, and looking for glory they won’t get from rebuilding some lost empire -- cause it won’t work. Every politician you’ve heard mention New Valyria is just trying to illicit fear, and assure the voters that they’re the ones who’ll keep us safe when the dragon comes home.” Tyrion hit the down button on the elevator, patiently waiting as he turned to look up at Podrick. “The Valyrians are dead. The dragons are dead; and ever since the slave trade ended, the Ghiscari have been too poor to buy hot air balloons forget warplanes. They’re irrelevant.”

The elevator dinged, and Tyrion got ready to step in, “If you want something scary, Podrick, look at The New Wolves.”

“New Wolves?” Podrick’s brow furrowed, “What’re the new --”

“Tyrion!” An accented voice called out suddenly across the newsroom, and the little man sighed. He’d been so close. “Tyrion, I need to speak with you.”

Tyrion stepped back out of the elevator, gave Pod a smile that looked more like a grimace, and walked back across the newsroom. Shae Mooring was waiting for him, hair neatly curled around her pretty face. He’d always thought Shae was beautiful, not that he’d brought it up -- he was a man whore, but he figured sticking his dick into work would likely fuck him up the ass later.

“Yes, Shae?” Tyrion asked, really not looking to get yelled at again today. He’d rather drag his chair on the subway.

“Good job on the show today,” she said with a smile, and Tyrion felt entirely dumbfounded.

“What?”

“The show, what you said.” An associate producer handed her a stack of papers as he passed, which she took, looking through them as she spoke, “It was brave of you.”

“Loras seems to think it was incredibly stupid of me,” Tyrion replied.

Shae smiled, “Most brave things are stupid.”

Tyrion smiled back, slightly, though it came out more like a grimace. When had he gotten so awkward? He was just about to excuse himself, escape this hell before it could drag him back with fiery tentacles, when she spoke again.

“So what did you think of the rest of the show?” She asked.

“It was nice till around nine o’clock,” Tyrion said, some small part of his brain was screaming at his mouth to shut up, but he’d never been good at that, “but it’s my personal opinion that Dornish wines are for a summer night with a beautiful woman, not a news broadcast -- but if you really must, why did it have to be wine on a budget?”

Shae raised an eyebrow, “Robert Baratheon’s government is so rotten it would disintegrate in your hands if you picked it up; half the country is so desperate they would elect a madman who’s good with words to replace him, and the other so scared they would elect literally anyone else. The North is on the edge of revolution; across the narrow sea the Dothraki are starving, but so are the kids down the street in Fishmarket; and our economy is about to be crushed under the weight of your father’s gold.” She looked at him pointedly, “Are you saying that with all this shit, the people don’t deserve to know how to get drunk cheap?”

“If you really wanted to get drunk cheap, you should have done a segment on Sothoryon Liquor. Four copper stars for a handle, and it burns like fire.”

Shae closed her eyes and shook her head, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tyrion.”

His brain was yelling at him to stop as he called after her, “Do you want to go for dinner tonight?”

She didn’t look back, “No.”

“Tomorrow?” He tried again, walking after her though he wasn’t quite sure why.

She turned, “And why would you want to ask me? I like cheap Dornish wine.”

His lips pursed as he thought for a witty comeback, “Shortest girl in the office?”

She rolled her eyes, stepped into her office, and closed the door. Tyrion started walking back towards the elevator. There was a handle of Sothoryon Liquor waiting in his cabinet back home, and he had half a mind to call Jaime and get blind drunk at...he glanced at his watch...eleven in the morning.

Just one of those days.


	3. Rhaegar I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Rhaegar’s chapter, which I’m hoping goes well, because I’ve never written him and obviously never read him. Though I guess that leaves his character up to a lot of interpretation. Anyways, thank you so much for the comments on the previous chapter, and I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> It’s a little bit expository at the beginning, I tried to make the “here’s the history of how we got here” come across as at least mildly interesting hahaha. I’ve modified the Targaryen bloodline a little so that Aegon the Unlikely is no longer Aerys’ grandfather but is some six hundred years removed. 
> 
> Also, sorry it took so long to get to this. Just got home for the summer.

**Rhaegar**

Rhaegar Targaryen loved the view from his office. It was fifty three floors up, on the southeastern corner of Dragon Industries’ Rosby highrise; it had a beautiful view of Blackwater Bay to the east, and to the south Old King’s Landing sprawled below him capstoned by the Red Keep his ancestors had built nearly a thousand years ago. The city was cut by the sparkling ribbon of Blackwater Rush, glass towers flashing in the sun in the financial district just south of the river. If he looked hard he could make out the peeking treetops of Kingswood Park. 

Rhaegar loved this city, and had never known a place to be so gloriously alive. Sure, he found peace in those relaxing weekends at his family’s estate, Summerhall, in the foothills of the Dornish Marches; and yes, he loved his family home in the suburb of Tumbleton with its big yard that backed up on the Mander River; but above all he loved this view, the whole city glittering before him. 

The office had been his father’s for years, but now his father had given up the title of CEO to Rhaegar, and worked in the parliament building instead as leader of the WNP. The building’s old spires, arches, and graceful Revolutionary Age architecture could be made out below in Old King’s Landing. Still, Aerys seemed insistent that campaign meetings be held on the 54th floor conference room of Dragon Industries. He said it was safer here. 

Rhaegar frowned, tracing a finger over the dragons carved into the edge of his old oak desk. There would be another meeting soon. The longer the Westerosi National Party’s campaign had drawn on, the more of a sour taste it left in his mouth. 

“Mr. Targaryen?” His secretary’s voice came over the intercom, “Your father wants to start the meeting early.” 

Rhaegar frowned, pushing the talk button, “It’s only twelve, the meeting isn’t till two. Is everyone here?” 

Static crackled for a second, “Everyone important.” 

He sighed, and stood, “Tell him I’ll be right up.” 

He gathered his laptop and his notes, placed them in his briefcase so he’d look official as he took the elevator up one floor, and left his sunny corner office. He smiled at his secretary on the way down the hall, waved at Arthur Dayne -- a senior partner -- who was taking his coffee in the break room, and finally stepped into the elevator. His father had contracted a private elevator that ran just from the fifty third to fifty fourth floors, making it faster for Rhaegar to make it to the party conference room if he was needed. 

It didn’t even take two minutes for him to be in the stylish, though windowless, room where Aerys held his party meetings. On the back wall the Targaryen dragon was emblazoned in red, sitting below it was Aerys Targaryen himself. The party table was long, but half the seats were filled -- only the most trusted were present, including the reticent bald man, Varys, who had no official party title. Even Rhaegar had no idea what his purpose was, but he was seated next to Aerys always. 

On Aerys’ other side was Adan Rossart, the man who would be War Advisor on his council and Hand to the Office should the WNP win the election. Rhaegar didn’t like the man, he looked like a weasel and something about his eyes just didn’t settle quite right. He didn’t have the credentials for the position, he didn’t even hold an iron chain in warfare much less a ring or mask. He had only a chain in a chemist’s red gold. 

Other members seated included Qarlton Chelsted, Lucerys Velaryon, Symond Staunton, Myles Mooton, Richard Lonmouth, and Jon Connington one of Rhaegar’s closest friends. 

“Rhaegar.” His father greeted him in a high, reedy voice. Rhaegar nodded politely, and took his place between Varys and Jon Connington. 

“Is there a reason we’re starting so early, father?” Rhaegar asked as he set up his laptop and notebook. 

“I wanted time to talk in confidence,” the old politician said, and then stopped -- vacant attention plastered on the dragon that shone on the finished wood of the table. Rhaegar met Jon’s gaze, a tense understanding between the two as the National Party’s men waited patiently for their leader. 

“About what, father?” Rhaegar asked. 

“Do you remember the tale of Dunk and Egg?” Aerys asked, and eyes started wandering about the table no man quite sure what to say in response. 

“King Aegon the Fifth, sir?” Chelsted asked, a confused frown on his face. 

Aerys smiled, papery lips pulling thin, “Exactly the man. Egg Targaryen, the biggest series of unlikely events ever to make a king who would change the world. Egg wasn’t an important boy, the fourth son of a fourth son -- for the most part he was left alone to live as he wished…” He trailed off for a few seconds, and then asked, “Do any of you remember who Dunk was?” 

There was silence, and Aerys’ face began to sour. 

“A hedge knight, father, Ser Duncan,” Rhaegar spoke up. He knew this tale well, it had been his favorite as a child and Aerys had told it to him often. 

“Very good, Rhaegar,” Aerys smiled, “Egg squired for Dunc because he wanted to, because he believed Dunc to be both brave and humble; and the pair went on many adventures -- even helped suppress the second Blackfyre Rebellion. They traveled everywhere, staying in inns and barns, and among the smallfolk Egg learned what life was like beyond the high towers and palaces of house Targaryen. 

He married for love -- a pretty lass named Betha Blackwood -- and he had five children before he was crowned King of The Seven Kingdoms. He married his children into the great houses, ending the practice of incest in the Targaryen Kings; and passed laws protecting the rights of the small folk. He ensured them fair justice, fair taxation, right of protection from careless lords, and opportunities for education.”

“That was some six hundred years ago, sir,” Mooton spoke up, “What’s it have to do with the election?” 

“History built today, and Aegon the Fifth’s actions marked the dawn of the Revolutionary Age.” Rhaegar had always been fond of reading, and Aerys had made sure he knew that the history of Westeros had been built upon the backs of great Targaryen Kings. Even an era without a throne rested on the foundation of a dragon’s crown. “Two hundred years later the Maester’s Citadel becomes Oldtown University, open to upper classes of smallfolk who could afford it. The People’s Revolution is lead from Oldtown some seventy years later; and the lords who recognized the power of the lower classes released their feudal holds over the smallfolk, those who didn’t were killed. 

Parliament is formed with a Small House and a Lord’s House, the King presiding over both with the aid of the Prime Minister. Sixty four years ago the Revolutionary Party forms a vast majority government in the Small House, restricts the power of the Lord’s House until it entirely abolishes it and the Iron Throne. King Jaehaerys’ rule is ended early, the seats of the great houses are given to the state as historic sites, and the Revolution of the smallfolk is finally completed.” 

Jon Connington’s foot bumped against Rhaegar’s, and he looked down. Jon had passed over a small note that read ‘nerd’. Rhaegar glared, trying not smile as Aerys continued with the discussion. Meetings often went like this, more allegorical rhetoric than actual planning or strategizing. Some members, like Chelsted, were often enthralled by Aerys’ impromptu speech making; Rhaegar, frankly, was bored. 

“We are the dawn of a new age,” Aerys said, finger tracing absentmindedly over the wing of the dragon carved into wood, “An age without a name, an age that we will define. We will raise, from fire and blood if we must, an age of strength and pride that the people can believe in. We will put down the wolf, old and new; and fish; and falcon; and all others who wish to disturb the unity that will make our nation as great as it was before those damn Revolutionaries elected that fat moose of a Prime Minister. An age in which --” 

“Father,” Rhaegar interrupted, “What of the dragon?” 

“There are no dragons, boy,” Aerys said, tone harsher than it had been. 

“No, Father, the dragon. The golden dragon, what are we going to do to fix it?” He asked. 

Aerys laughed, “Fix it? And then what, Rhaegar, do you plan on going to pick flowers with those liberal Reformists?” Chelsted and Staunton laughed along with him, “The dragon will fluctuate, it’s a free market, it will settle itself in time.” 

“Father, this isn’t about the free market, this is about Baratheon’s legislation on --” 

“The dragon is fine. We will let it alone, and give the people room to pick their own paths just as Aegon the Fifth did. This is the dawn of a new age, Rhaegar...an age for the strong.” 

 

A hand on his shoulder stopped him before he could get on the elevator. Jon’s normally easy smile was absent as he nodded towards the men’s room across the hall. Rhaegar frowned, but followed willingly. Jon was one of his closest friends and most ardent supporters, he was a kind man with a deep laugh and brilliant red hair. Rhaegar trusted him above everyone else in the party. 

The bathroom door shut, and Jon started checking stalls. Rhaegar almost wanted to laugh. When had their party come to secret conversations next to the urinals? 

“What is it, Jon?” 

“Did you watch the news this morning?” Jon asked, peeking into the handicapped stall at the end. 

“Yeah, KLN like always,” Rhaegar said, leaning back against the sinks. 

“No, not local news. Wake up Westeros.” Jon pulled his smartphone from his pocket, tapping away at the screen. 

“The morning show with the pretty Volantene anchor?” Rhaegar asked, brow furrowing. 

“Lysian,” Jon corrected to him, “but it doesn’t matter. Just…” He handed over his phone, tapping play on a video clip of Tyrion Lannister, “Just watch this.” 

The little man’s voice echoed oddly off the marble walls, “It’s practically common knowledge that the WNP worships their party leader, Aerys Targaryen. Should, Gods forbid, the constituents oust Baratheon’s government in favor of WNP they would be ensuring their rule under a man who at best is a manipulative demagogue. At worst he’s a raging madman with less self control than one of those beasts his house loves so much -- it’s well known what happens to Targaryens when they get old, it’s been happening for nearly a millennia now --” 

Rhaegar frowned. Insinuations of incest aside, the thing that worried him most about Lannister was how entirely spot on he was. Rhaegar had no delusions as to what his father was, nor to the illness that lined his faulty logic and quick temper. Aerys Targaryen was sick, he was nearly seventy five, and to be honest Rhaegar didn’t think he’d ever been entirely there. Some part of Aerys was still in the Red Keep, waiting to inherit an Iron Throne that was kept from him by velvet rope and a throng of tourists. 

His father had been ten when the power of the Iron Throne had been dissolved, just old enough to know what he was losing. 

“Your wife,” Jon said, voice somber, “Her brother is executive producer for that show. Mr. Targaryen won’t be happy when he sees it...I just thought I should warn you.” 

Rhaegar took a deep breath, “Thank you...I’ll...I’ll deal with this.” 

Jon offered him a stiff smile, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and exited the bathroom. As the door slammed shut Rhaegar let out a heavy sigh, and turned, leaning his fists onto the cool black marble counter. He would like nothing more than to go back to his office, and make a cup of tea while admiring the view -- however, that was not a luxury he could afford these days. He would have to deal with his father before his father decided to deal with things himself. 

“Rhaegar!” Chelsted grinned, patting him on the shoulder in what felt more like a punch as he tried to exit the bathroom. Loud and boisterous, and perhaps a bit on the slow side, Chelsted wasn’t an awful man -- regardless Rhaegar found him intolerable. “How’s that pretty little sister of yours?” 

“Dany is fine,” Rhaegar said politely, before trying to shift around the rather large man. 

“She’ll be starting at Old Town this semester won’t she?” 

“Yes, she will. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Rhaegar managed to break past the human wall that was Chelsted, scraping his shoulder against the bathroom’s threshold. The blasted man just kept following though. 

“It’s just that I’ve got a nephew over there, Dylon. Good lad, real smart, getting his chain in computer science -- just, he isn’t too good at talking to girls, and I promised his mum I’d help him out --” 

“Dany can make her own decisions,” Rhaegar said brusquely, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to with my father.” 

Too annoyed to be nervous at this point, he strode towards the elevator and headed down to his office. He needed to make a call. 

 

“Martell.” The thick Dornish accent answered on the other end. 

“Oberyn,” Rhaegar started, “It’s your good-brother. I need to talk to you about your show this morning.” 

“Seven hells,” the other man muttered, “That’s all anyone wants to talk to me about today. I met a beautiful woman last night, Ellaria. What if I wish to talk about her?” 

“What about your sister?” Rhaegar asked, doing his best to ignore Oberyn’s useless commentary. 

“I’d hardly like to think about her like that -- though I suppose it might seem somewhat normal to you --” 

“Stop fucking around, Oberyn!” Rhaegar snapped, “It’s jokes like that that are going to get your sister in trouble with my father. If he figures out you’re the one who produced that there’s nothing stopping him from taking it out on Elia.” 

“This isn’t the time of King’s and iron thrones, Rhaegar. Hitting a woman will land him in the same place as some scumbag from flea bottom.” 

“He controls the family money, he might not hit her, but he could cut her and the children off. Just... just promise me you’ll put on apology on air tomorrow so I have something good to tell him about this.” Rhaegar held back the urge to sigh, he had never enjoyed dealing with his good-brother. Doran was alright, but Oberyn had been determined to dislike him from the moment he and Elia got married. 

“Couldn’t you just not tell him?” Oberyn asked. 

“Lannister’s segment’s practically gone viral. If he hasn’t heard about already he will...it’s best that I do damage control while I can.” 

“Fine. I have already planned to have Shae apologize for Tyrion -- and do not think it’s because I disagree with him, he just needed better evidence. It’ll be the first thing on tomorrow’s broadcast. 

 

Neither Aerys nor Varys looked up, deep in conversation at the other end of the table. Otherwise the room was empty, and was starting to feel entirely too large. Rhaegar cleared his throat, the other two continued to ignore him. 

He cleared his throat again, “Father? May I speak with you?” 

“Of course, boy. What is it?” Aerys didn’t move to look at him, if anything he sounded aggravated he’d been interrupted. 

Rhaegar glanced at Varys, “Privately.” 

“There’s nothing you could tell me that Varys does not need to here.” 

The strange man let out a chuckle, “I’d scarcely think there’s anything you could say that I do not already know.” 

Rhaegar’s brow furrowed, but he decided not to question him. “Father, did you happen to watch the news this morning?” 

“That biased garbage? No, no there are better ways to learn the world.” 

Rhaegar swallowed, keeping his face placid though inside he was torn between nerves and something akin to anger, “You were discussed on Wake up Westeros this morning, Tyrion Lannister said some rather...unsavory things about our ancestral history.” 

Aery’s lip twitched in a scowl, fingernail tapping against the hardwood of the table. “You didn’t tell me of this Varys,” he spoke slowly, tone accusatory. 

“I hardly thought it important, your grace,” Varys said, bowing his head slightly. 

Rhaegar frowned, “Your grace?” 

“I’m a prince by birth, it’s a formality -- and Varys is a polite man. A good virtue you don’t see much these days,” Aerys grumbled. Rhaegar almost argued that his father used to be a prince, and that there was a reason the royal family had been ousted entirely, and that the WNP’s polling numbers would collapse if it got out that Aerys Targaryen had his subordinates calling him ‘your grace’. 

However, he didn’t have time for that particular argument. 

“About Lannister’s comments father --” 

“Is this what the media’s come to?” Aerys interrupted, “The bloody news is no better than those tabloids your brother can’t keep himself out of. Useless, useless, that’s all news is these days -- an intelligent man can see that --” 

“Father, I just wanted to let you know that the producer of the show is Elia’s brother.” Aerys’ eyes narrowed, and Rhaegar continued before Aerys could make his own conclusions, “I’ve already spoken with him, he…” Rhaegar paused, briefly, and decided to twist the truth ever so slightly for Elia’s sake, “He agrees that Lannister was out of line. Shae Moore will issue an apology on his behalf at the top of the show tomorrow morning.” 

Aerys frowned, too long nails tapping at the table,“Never trust a lion, boy...what do the constituents think of the Imp’s commentary?” 

“I -- it came out this morning, Father, I would hardly --” 

Varys cut in smoothly, “Your supporters pay little mind to those who are so set against you. I doubt that with all the press has already said the remarks of one second son will change their votes, your grace.” 

“Very well,” Aerys said, “Thank you for--” he trailed off suddenly, eyes distant. Rhaegar frowned, it wasn’t all that late...his father only ever got like this when he was tired. 

“Father?” 

Aerys blinked a few times, looking confused, “Rhaegar? Where are your manners, child? Did you even knock?”


End file.
